


Last Dance

by Whisper132



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-04
Updated: 2006-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper132/pseuds/Whisper132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would really happen if Atobe hit on Sanada</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Dance

Atobe stared at the racquet lying on his bed. The match against Sanada was in no way satisfactory. Unfinished matches were not something to which Atobe was accustomed. Furthermore, Atobe _knew_ Sanada wasn’t even trying in the match, merely making a show of playing. Sanada was mocking him. With a growl, Atobe removed his sweaty jersey and threw it on the bed.

“Tantrums do not suit you.” Sanada’s voice was like granite.

“Ore-sama did not ask for your opinion on the matter.” Atobe stalked to the bed and picked up his shirt and racquet. “Ore-sama is going to take a shower.”

Sanada shrugged and moved to his own bed.

&-&

The shower helped to clear Atobe’s head and remove the last traces of irritation. By the time he was dry and in his pajamas, Atobe was in a rather pleasant mood. In the room, Sanada was reclined on his bed, reading. Atobe sneered and went for his backpack. He had studies to attend to.

After a chapter of biology, the silence was getting on Atobe’s nerves. “Ore-sama was not pleased with the result of today’s match.”

Sanada sat up and, marking his page, put his book aside. “There is little that can be done about that. It would be best for you to move on.”

“You weren’t even trying, were you?” Atobe rose from the bed and walked to stand next to Sanada. “Why must you insult ore-sama with your fledgling efforts?”

Sanada’s shoulders rose and fell, his muscles outlined even with the cotton shirt to cover them. Briefly Atobe wondered what it would be like to return a ball sent with all the strength of those muscles behind it. “I did not mean to be insulting, merely cautious,” Sanada said, blinking. “What are you staring at?”

“Ore-sama does not _stare,_ he was merely observing something.” Atobe adjusted his stance to affect his usual arrogant pose.

“What were you observing, then?” Sanada swung his legs off the bed and looked up at Atobe.

“You have an abnormal amount of upper body strength. Ore-sama wonders how this came to be.” What Atobe was actually wondering was if Yukimura allowed Sanada to restrain him with those powerful muscles or if Sanada was always restraining himself as he did in the match.

“Training,” Sanada replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Your tennis is too restrained to make effective use of your muscles.” Atobe gave in to the odd impulse to touch Sanada. The aristocrat took hold of Sanada’s bicep. “The muscle mass here is enough for a smash with four times the power of your current move. Ore-sama does not understand why you restrain yourself so.” Atobe’s hand trailed along Sanada’s arm before moving off.

“There is strength in restraint.” Sanada said it as if reciting a mantra. Atobe didn’t believe in mantras. As a general rule, Atobe believed in very little save his own power of will. Unfortunately, Atobe’s willpower was standing back a safe distance and watching the baser instincts have a run at Atobe’s mental functions. This was why Atobe’s hand, now removed from Sanada’s arm, was resting on Sanada’s chest.

“Ore-sama never requested that you restrain yourself with him.” Atobe leaned closer, his breath condensing on Sanada’s neck. “Ore-sama is strong enough for you, Sanada.”

Sanada shoved Atobe away, sending him crashing into his bed. Sanada stood. “I do not appreciate your advances. I will sleep elsewhere tonight and give you time to calm down.”

Atobe lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering just what had come over him.

&-&

The day after Atobe’s slip of reason, everything returned to normal. Sanada, ever the honorable one, treated Atobe as he normally did, which meant that Sanada was ignoring him. Atobe thought this was just fine, particularly since he couldn’t understand what had caused him to act so forthright. True, he’d always appreciated Sanada for his tennis skill, but never had he thought about Sanada in an illicit fashion.

Sanada was off limits. Even were Sanada willing, a jealous Yukimura Seiichi was not something Atobe wanted to deal with. He would have to hire a personal bodyguard for the remainder of his junior high and high school career. Sanada might as well wear a wedding band or write “Property of Yukimura Seiichi” on that idiotic cap of his.

No one expected Yukimura to stop by for a visit. He was in a wheelchair, but looked otherwise nothing like the specter he’d been before the surgery. He was almost pink and healthy, which only served to enhance his beauty. Atobe took hours in the morning to look as good as Yukimura did after stepping away from Death’s door. It made the Hyoutei captain sick.

“Hello.” Yukimura’s greeting was all thin-lipped, hooded-eyed breathiness. “I wanted to stop by and see how my team was progressing in the camp. I hear both you and Sanada have been selected. How wonderful. I’ll be watching the matches from home, but I will be cheering whole heartedly for you both.”

Yukimura knew about the selection, which meant Yukimura probably knew about Atobe’s idiotic attempt at a kiss the night before. Rikkai’s buchou had an informant, most likely Sanada, though Sanada was not currently in the vicinity and, as far as Atobe knew, Sanada was magnetically drawn to Yukimura whenever the boy was around. Perhaps it was Yanagi Renji, then. In either case, Atobe’d been ratted out and Yukimura was watching him, closely. Fantastic. Atobe formed his response very carefully. “Ore-sama is pleased to have your encouragement. Ore-sama assures you that your faith is not misplaced.” Atobe turned, as if to leave, before turning back with a carefully calculated, snide, “Ore-sama is sure Sanada will be sufficient as well.” Not running from the wheelchair bound boy was difficult, but long practice in dignity under adversity finally proved fruitful, and Atobe sauntered back to his dormitory, ready to murder someone, anyone, foolish enough to mention the incident with Sanada, or Yukimura’s name, or anything else that was in any way related to Rikkaidai Fuzoku.

&-&

Atobe did not want to play doubles with Sanada. Atobe was under the impression that he’d made his distaste for Sanada clear during his coffee meeting with Sakaki the previous night, but apparently the Hyoutei coach was under the influence of controlled substances because he completely skewed everything Atobe said and came to the conclusion that it would be wise to force Atobe and Sanada to cooperate in public, on television, with Yukimura watching.

“Don’t get in ore-sama’s way,” Atobe told Sanada, hoping Sanada understood that he really meant, “Stay away from me or Yukimura will kill me.”

“I will do whatever is necessary to win.” The small upturn of the right side of Sanada’s mouth indicated that Sanada understood and was willing to play along. Thank goodness for small miracles.

Halfway into the match, Atobe was beginning to re-evaluate the meaning of Sanada’s smirk. Perhaps it meant, “Fine then, I’ll stand in the back and watch you run around. Yukimura will enjoy that.” Sanada wasn’t putting forth any effort at all, just stepping up every now and again to battle the quiet American in midair. The battles lasted ten seconds and, even then, Sanada wasn’t breaking a sweat. “Is ore-sama playing singles?” Atobe asked, taking the ball Sanada offered and moving toward the baseline to serve. The Tanhauser was taking its toll. Atobe’s hands were having trouble holding onto the tennis ball.

“We will not lose. Stop whining.” Sanada strode to the front of the court. Atobe could have sworn he heard a snicker.

“Ore-sama is going to hire a hitman, just for you Sanada Genichirou,” Atobe growled before serving. The thought of Yukimura and Sanada, nestled next to one another in a group casket was enough to fuel Atobe through another round of Tanhauser serves.


End file.
